


Crimson Flame

by supurbangothic



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Aged Up Edward Elric, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Ed has a problem with authority, Enemies to Lovers???, Ishbalan | Ishvalan Alphonse Elric, Ishbalan | Ishvalan Edward Elric, Ishvalan AU, M/M, PTSD, Slow Burn, adjusting canon to suit my whims, mercenary au, overlap of the original and brotherhood, roy is a guilty motherfucker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:41:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23685595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supurbangothic/pseuds/supurbangothic
Summary: Roy Mustang doesn't understand why the military has decided to send him a couple of mercenaries to deal with the recent serial killings, especially since Grumman has already assigned three entire units to deal with the situation. But when Edward and Alphonse Elric show up in his office, all crimson and gold, he just knows this is going to be a lot more trouble than it's worth.RoyEd Ishvalan Mercenary Elric AU of my own design.
Relationships: Edward Elric/Roy Mustang
Comments: 25
Kudos: 349





	1. The Living Come Back to Haunt You

Roy shoves his paperwork away with a disgusted sound aimed at himself and resigns himself to perpetually tapping his pen against his desk until the men he’s waiting for arrive. He doesn’t know why he’s so on edge, besides being mildly pissed that Central Command doesn’t think his unit can handle this serial killer business on their own. Why the need to call in “private contractors,” a fancy title for what Roy knows essentially amounts to mercenaries, when Grumman has already assigned three units to catching the killer? How the hell are two more people meant to be any help, especially two men that Roy has never even heard of?

He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair and giving a petulant huff that Riza would call childish, if she weren’t in the outer office at the moment. As such, he’s free to be as childish as he wishes. He even grumbles to himself a bit, hoping that’ll make him feel better about the situation. It doesn’t.

He’s  _ not  _ nervous. Not at all. Just pissed that he doesn’t know anything about these new hires, so it’s difficult to plan around them accordingly. Are they alchemists? Marksman? How old are they? All the mercenaries he’s ever seen are grisled old men, hanging around in seedy bars and grumbling to themselves about “the old days,” when things were better. Jaded as all hell and annoying to work with. He’s not sure he’ll be able to deal if that’s the case, and isn’t above asking Grumman to assign the mercs a new point of contact. Really, why Grumman assigned the task to Roy’s unit of all of them is a mystery to him. He tells himself it’s because his unit is the best Grumman's got, that the Lieutenant General trusts Roy and  _ that’s  _ why the mercs are being pawned off on his unit. Yeah, that’s why.

There’s a knock and his office doors swings open, and Roy sits up a little straighter as Riza comes into the room. She eyes him warily, taking in the paperwork that he had carelessly shoved away and over the front of the desk, and her eyes narrow. Roy does  _ not  _ flinch. If his hand chooses that moment to twitch a bit, well. It’s completely unrelated.

“Colonel, you do realize the paperwork I handed you is due by lunchtime  _ today,  _ correct?” Riza asks, in that tone that means she’s waiting for him to implicate himself so she has a reason to shoot him. His eyes skitter off to the side and a hand comes up to scratch behind his ear.

“Well...yes…”

Riza smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. When she speaks her voice is clipped and he can almost hear the sound of the safety coming off her gun, but he can see her hands so he must be imagining it. “I see.  _ Do  _ try to finish your paperwork in a timely manner, sir. Your 01000 appointment is here to see you.” 

She steps to the side to allow two men through the door, then turns and leaves, closing it firmly behind her. Roy tries not to wince at the force. Someone snickers.

“Man, are you sure  _ she’s  _ not the Colonel around here?” A tenor voice says, and Roy turns his gaze onto the two men now standing in front of his desk. He meets the gaze of the one who spoke and promptly freezes. Amused crimson eyes look out at him from a tanned face. The man’s eyes are red, the color of blood-stained sand, the color of the array stitched into the back of Roy’s own gloves, and Roy suddenly finds it hard to breathe. His eyes shift to the left to find the other man watching him with a blank expression, and  _ his  _ eyes are gold, framed by a shag of white hair. Neither of them can be any older than Roy himself. He takes a deep breath.

“The Elric brothers, I assume?” As he speaks he focuses on the first man’s straw-pale bangs, just to the left of red eyes, and battles with the urge to clench his fists.

“Yup, that’s us! I’m Edward, the older brother. This here’s Alphonse, my younger brother. We were told you have a bit of a problem here in East City. A serial killer going after state alchemists, right?” The amused look stays on Edward’s face, and the elder brother gives no hint that he knows who Roy is, or what he’s done. Neither does Alphonse, but the white-haired man’s expression is neutral. Polite, but nearing disinterest. Roy’s gaze shifts back to Edward and accidentally meets crimson. He quickly looks down to his desk, reaching into its drawer and pulling out the case file. Clearing his throat around the lump that has formed there, he speaks.

“This is all the information we have on them. It isn’t much to go on, but it’s what we have. You can take it with you and look it over, as long as you return it. There’s copies on record, but they’re a pain to get.” He slides the case file across his desk. Edward takes two long strides forward and snatches it up, then turns.

“Thanks. Ready to go, Al?”

The younger brother nods, then turns his gaze on Roy. “We look forward to working with you, Colonel Mustang,” he says solemnly, but Roy can’t tell if it’s all that genuine. Ed turns his head back to Roy and winks, and then the Elric brothers are gone and Roy sits alone in a quiet office.

He spends a few minutes staring at the door. He never thought the mercenaries that Central Command would send would be Ishvalan. Half-Ishvalan by the look of the golden coloring mixed in, but those crimson eyes are unmistakable. So many crimson eyes, empty, staring, accusing. But not in his sector, no. The heat had-

The door opens and Riza comes in. Wordlessly, she gathers the papers that had fallen off his desk and orders them before placing them very intentionally back in front of him. She salutes and turns to go.

“Lieutenant.” His voice halts her. She turns back to look at him.

“Sir?”

“Did you see,” there’s that lump in his throat, again. He attempts to clear it, “did you see his eyes?” Her gaze softens, and she nods.

“I did, sir. It was...it came as a surprise to me as well.”

He doesn’t know what he should say. There’s nothing he  _ can  _ say, nothing to do to make reparations for what he’s done, besides what he’s doing already.

“Yes. Quite a surprise.”

Riza looks at him for a moment more, then turns and leaves. Roy turns back to his paperwork.

Ed tries not to crumble the manila folder of the case file too badly as he walks down the steps of Eastern Command, his brother’s footsteps fast-paced behind him in an effort to catch up. There’s something boiling inside of him, something that usually only shows itself when he sees a group of blue-coats marching through an Ishvalan slum like they fucking  _ belong  _ there, and he’s glad he isn't holding the folder in his right hand. Al catches up but doesn’t say anything, letting Ed work through his fury by himself, or maybe dealing with some fury of his own. Eventually, when Ed’s calmed down enough to stop abusing the file in his hand, he says to Al quietly,

“So, that’s the famous Hero of Ishval, huh?” He huffs out a humorless laugh. “I wonder if he’ll report us. Half-Ishvalan is still enough for the extermination order.”

“He looked at us like ghosts,” Al says in that observant way of his, but Ed knows his brother, can hear the anger the words aren’t letting on. “Like he was afraid.”

“He wouldn’t meet my eye at all, the bastard. What, is he too good for us? We just some non-military Ishvalan half-breeds to him?” Al doesn’t dignify his rage with an answer, and eventually it dies out with nowhere to go. Ed sighs, suddenly tired. “Let’s find some grub and then look over this case file, yeah? You remember the way to the Ishvalan quarter from the last time we were here?” Ed knows what “the Isvalan quarter” really is, a ghetto where the poor and cast-off congregate, but it makes him feel a little less angry if he thinks of it like a neighborhood, a community of their people.

Al nods and takes the lead, and Ed’s thoughts drift back to the pinched look on the Flame bastard’s face when he’d first met Ed’s eye. Anger pools in his stomach as he wonders just how many of his people got to look into the bastard’s face before he burned them to a crisp, if the piece of shit even gave them the right of looking upon their killer, or if he was a coward. If he even knew enough of the customs of the people he murdered to know how they found their peace, after the end. Ed clenches his right hand, even if he can barely feel the pressure. He’s expected to return the case file, and he rather not explain why it’s in tiny pieces when he does. Then again, maybe he’ll shred it anyway, just to make the bastard’s life a little harder. The thought itself offers some catharsis, and he manages a cruel smile as he follows his brother.

If he’s going to be forced to work a case with him, Ed might as well torture the Colonel as much as he can. If the man doesn’t report them, that is.

Shit, this is going to be more trouble than it’s worth, Ed can feel it.


	2. Run Away (What You Are Will Always Follow)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to try to keep this fic updating on a weekly basis, but after all the feedback and learning that you guys are just as excited for it as I am I just decided to release the new chapter as soon as I finished it. Enjoy!

Lieutenant General Grumman’s secretary calls his name and Roy looks up from the paperwork he’s brought with him to find her waving him through the door.

“The Lieutenant General will see you now, sir.”

He thanks her and stands, making for the door to Grumman’s office. The man is looking at him expectantly as he enters, but not unkindly. Roy salutes sharply and only sits once Grumman gives him the leave, easing himself into one of the leather chairs in front of the Lieutenant General’s desk.

“What can I do for you, Colonel?” Grumman asks when he is settled, straight to the point. Usually, Roy likes that about the man, but today he feels an unusual feeling of anxiety curling in his gut.

“Well, sir, it’s about the private contractors that Central Command hired to deal with the killer targeting state alchemists. The Elrics. I was wondering if perhaps another unit could be assigned as their point of contact, rather than mine, sir.” He clenches his hands where they’re folded in his lap. Grumman’s brow creases, his mustache twitching slightly.

“Well I’m afraid Central Command requested your unit specifically as the point of contact, but if there is a valid reason for the change, perhaps they could be persuaded. I assume you would not request a change without due reason.” Grumman’s tone suggests that he’d like to hear that reason, preferably now, and it better be good. Shit. Roy wracks his brain, flipping through possibilities. If he tells the Lieutenant General that the Elric brothers are Ishvalan, they’ll be eligible for the extermination order. The order hasn’t been rigorously enforced in a few years, but Roy doubts the brass will like the fact that two of their private contractors are Ishvalan. Hell, they may even order Roy to carry out the order himself, and that would be far worse than simply working with the Elrics. There is far too much Ishvalan blood on his hands as it is.

Grumman is looking at him expectantly and Roy suddenly realizes that he cannot tell the truth. Any other excuse he could come up with would sound lame, and he  _ likes  _ Grumman, doesn’t want the man to think less of him. Double shit. He should have thought of all this  _ before  _ coming up here, but his mind had been awash in images of red eyes and red sand and red flames and getting  _ away.  _ Because Roy Mustang is a lot of things, but chief among them, he is a coward. He clears his throat and stands, saluting.

“My apologies, Lieutenant General. I was not aware Central Command had requested my unit, specifically. It was a simple conflict of personalities, but I will see it handled. I am sorry to have wasted your time, sir.”

Grumman looks confused, taken aback, but he returns Roy’s salute crisply. “Nothing to worry about, Colonel. Do tell me if those two dig up any information on the case, yes?”

“Of course, sir.” With that, he lets himself out of Grumman’s office and out into the hall, calling another “thank you” to Martha as he passes her desk. She gives him a nod and a smile. Once Roy is out in the hall, the door shut firmly behind him, he leans back against it and lets out a sigh. Looks like he’s going to have to deal with a living reminder of his own guilt, for at least as long as it takes to catch this killer. He supposes that’s all the more reason to catch them quickly, but nothing about the time until then is going to be easy. Oh, well. If Riza can deal, so can he. If the Elrics can deal, so can he, even if they’d given no indication of recognizing him upon their first meeting. He guesses he can count that as a small blessing, at least.

He makes his way back to his own office, and when he walks in the door it’s suspiciously silent save the fluttering of paper and scribbling of pens. He narrows his eyes and looks at his unit, all of whom except Riza studiously avoid his gaze.

“Anything to report, Master Sergeant?” he asks, and Feury’s eyes shoot up and meet his, almost guiltily. 

“No, sir. Except…” his eyes shift over to Riza. She sighs.

“The Elric brothers came by to return the case file you leant them a while ago, sir. It’s waiting on your desk.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

Roy nods and goes to his office, shutting the door behind him and eying the manila folder on his desk. As he gets closer, he sees that it’s hideously wrinkled. What exactly had the Elrics done with it? Fed it through a meat tenderizer? He sits down behind his desk and opens it, finding a note on top of the reports, hastily scribbled in a nearly illegible hand.

_ ‘Colonel,  _

_ Thanks for the case file. It was almost useful. Don’t you blue-coats have  _ anything _ on this guy? We’ll snoop around, conduct some interviews of the witnesses. Expect a report eventually. _

_ Ed _ ’

Irritation sparks through Roy as he scans the note, and he has to keep himself from burning it in a fit of pique. Is Elric  _ always  _ such an asshole, or is it just some sort of problem with authority? He’ll admit the case file doesn’t have much, but the whole reason the Elrics were called in the first place is that this killer is proving harder than usual to gather information on. Also, how soon is  _ eventually?  _ Roy grumbles to himself and snaps the file closed, shoving it away from him. These Elric brothers better be damned good at their job, for all the frustration they’ve  _ already  _ caused him. 

He allows himself a minute more to sulk, feeling he’s earned that much. Then, he turns to that day’s paperwork. He doesn’t feel like having a gun pointed at him today.

They aren’t getting anywhere. Three different establishments they’ve walked into, asked around for some witness or another; and been asked to leave as soon as the proprietor gets a good look at Ed’s eyes and Al’s hair, putting two-and-two together. Ed has never pegged East City to be that prejudiced against his people, but maybe they’re just choosing the wrong places. Or maybe it’s worse here for Ishvalans than he originally thought. Either way, they aren’t making any headway with the case, and it’s starting to piss him off. At the last place, he’d even tried to explain that they were working with the military, trying to catch a murderer.  _ That  _ had just got him a disbelieving look and a more aggressively enforced exit. Right, as if two Ishvalans would ever work with the military, would risk being labeled blood-traitors for an institution that made them practically extinct.

He supposes he could invest in a pair of sunglasses, but the very though makes him sick to his stomach and rage flare through his gut. He shouldn’t have to hide,  _ won’t  _ hide who he is for the sake of doing the military’s dirty work. He’s proud of his heritage, of his mother’s people. He keeps his eyes uncovered as a badge of that pride, and damn anyone who looks at him and sees something to be ashamed of, something to revile.

He’s beginning to wonder what the hell they’re doing here, himself, but then he remembers the frankly ridiculous sum of money they’re being offered. That much money will do wonders for the rebuilding efforts. That’s why he and Al are here, he keeps reminding himself. For their people. To give them a fighting chance in a country that wants them all dead. Well, the bastards haven’t succeeded yet, have they?

“Brother,” Al’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. Ed turns to him. “If we aren’t having any luck with the witnesses, why don’t we look at the crime scenes? We might see something that the blue-coats missed.” It’s a good idea, and one that sounds far less frustrating. Ed nods and pulls out his notebook from inside his jacket, flipping to the page where he’d jotted down the scant useful details from the Flame bastard’s case file. It’s like the military is  _ trying  _ to be obtuse. Not so much as a physical description, not even a suspected gender, nothing. Just a matter-of-fact list of potential witnesses, victims, and locations.

Based on the cause of death - the same for each of the victims - there’s only one type of killer they could be dealing with. Only one way to completely liquefy a brain without leaving any marks on the face or head itself, and that’s alchemy. But that doesn’t make any  _ sense. _

Why would an alchemist target other alchemists? State alchemists, at that. Maybe someone who hadn’t made it past their certification, or failed their exam, and was acting out on a sense of jealousy? Someone who doesn’t like the way state-certified alchemists use their knowledge to further the military’s agenda? No matter which way he tries to slice it, something doesn’t add up. He’s missing some crucial bits of information, and it’s starting to piss him off.

The first crime scene Al suggests is the most recent, a fairly large mansion that’s been roped up by caution tape, but Ed shows the guard at the gate their private contractor’s papers and getting in is a simple affair. The majority of the house is pristine, orderly, indicative of either little use of many of the rooms or a compulsively tidy resident.

“Who’s the victim?” Al asks him, and Ed flips to the page in his notebook detailing the victims and their place and manner of death.

“Shou Tucker, the Sewing Life Alchemist. Apparently some kind of genius in chimera research, he’s the only person on record who’s been able to create a talking one. Post-mortem, they found out he used his wife to make it. And his daughter, for another one the murderer killed himself.” He tugs out the pictures of both Tucker and what was left of his daughter. The man is lying in a pool of his own blood. It's pouring out his eyes, his nose, his mouth, but other than that there's not a scratch on him. “Tucker was a son-of-a-bitch, using his own family. I don’t deny that, but he should have had a trial, should have faced the firing squad. This…it’s overkill.”

They make their way into the room where Tucker had his laboratory and the murder took place. Cages line the walls, now empty once the blue-coats had swept the place. The bars of some of the cages and the floor is brown-black with dried blood. The two of them stand there for a moment, silent. Scanning.

“Do you think it was a personal killing? Could explain the overkill,” Al says. Ed brings a hand up to his chin, considering.

“It would make sense, if not for the others. All killed in the same manner, all with research in different fields of alchemy. The only thing that ties them together is the manner of death and the fact that they’re all state alchemists.” Al nods.

“Not just in East City either. A few in Central, and in the South, too. Some well known, some pretty vague. I’ve never even heard of the ‘Braven Tooth Alchemist,’ but it looks like Tucker was the most renowned out of all of them.”

“Which means the killer is getting more confident, moving up through the ranks.” Ed stares out the window that takes up most of the back wall, gears turning in his mind. His gaze settles on Eastern Command. A small hum of consideration leaves him.  _ Moving up through the ranks… _

A twisted grin comes to his face almost without him realizing. Al turns to him, confusion lighting in golden eyes.

“Brother? Have you figured something out?”

“Al, what do you use when you want to catch something? Like a fish, or a rabbit in a snare?” Al seems to get on the same page as him immediately, a small, smug smile coming to his face as a warped mirror of Ed’s own.

“You use  _ bait.” _


	3. The Best Laid Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another testament to how excited I am and how bad I am at sticking to a publishing schedule. You guys get a look into Al's mind in this one, and it's a bit longer than the ones before it. Enjoy!

“No. Absolutely not.”

“It’s a good idea! I’m sure he can handle himself just fi-”

“You were called in to _minimize_ the danger to state alchemists, and now you want to-”

“Lieutenant.” Roy cuts off the impending argument with a single word and a raised hand. Riza turns to him, eyes alight with indignation (not anger, she’s far too controlled to let strangers see her truly angry, but it’s a near thing). The Elric brothers turn to him as well, but he studiously avoids looking at them in favor of turning his gaze on Riza. “It’s not a bad idea. If what the Elrics say is true and the killer is escalating their attacks based on notoriety, this is probably the best way to get some actually useful information on them.”

Riza looks very much like she wants to argue for a moment, before schooling her expression into one that’s nearly unreadable and squaring her shoulders. “How do we know the killer will take the bait, sir?”

“We’ve worked that out, actually,” the older Elric, Edward, says from the couch he’s currently lounging across. Roy tries not to look irritated at the sight of muddy boots on his clean upholstery. He isn’t entirely sure he succeeds. “Assuming they’re still in East City, all we have to do is set up a situation where it _appears_ like they have the element of surprise. Have the ba- the Colonel go to obscure bars in neighborhoods that aren’t heavily populated, and walk home instead of driving. Order drinks that _look_ like alcohol, so they’ll think you’ve been drinking, but don’t actually. You’d need to stay sharp. Al and I’ll tail you the whole time, for when they take the bait. Oh, and don’t actually walk to your own house. It would ruin the whole plan if the killer knew where you live, they could just kill you in your sleep and we wouldn’t be any closer to learning their identity.”

Roy blinks in moderate surprise. That’s... actually a pretty well thought out plan. Even if their killer doesn’t take the bait and approaches him directly, the Elrics can still take note of anyone paying Roy undue attention, compiling a list of suspects. That’s further along than the military has been able to get, with a plan that’s rather genius in its simplicity. The killer is targeting state alchemist, of which Roy is one of the most notorious in Amestris. It only makes sense to dangle him like a rare cut of meat in front of everyone’s nose: their killer would hardly be able to resist the opportunity. But…

“If I can’t go back to my house, where am I supposed to go? I can’t very well walk around East City all night, I _do_ have work to do.” At this, Riza give him a look that he just _knows_ means, _Since when_ haven’t _you done just about anything to avoid getting out of work?_ He pointedly ignores her. Edward waves a hand dismissively. 

“Al worked that one out after some canvassing of the city, actually. There’s an abandoned townhouse in pretty good shape not far from Eastern Command. The neighborhood it’s in must be pretty old, because there’s a well in the basement that attaches to a cistern underground. The cistern has a few tunnels branching off to other wells, one of which comes out a good few blocks away from the townhouse. You come back there, walk around and mess with the lights like you’re getting ready for bed, then slip out underground. The Lieutenant can wait by the exit well with a car to take you back to your place.”

Riza’s eyes narrow. “If the townhouse is abandoned, how is the Colonel supposed to ‘mess with the lights,’ as you put it? Wouldn’t they be shut off?”

“We’ve taken care of it already, Lieutenant,” Alphonse Elric speaks up from where he sits on Roy’s other couch, across from his brother, back straight and hands folded politely in his lap. “We also took the liberty of making the house itself seem more lived-in, from the outside.” Roy wants to ask how, exactly, the brothers managed to do this in the three days since he’s seen them. Wants to, but he’s a bit afraid the means aren’t strictly legal. It’s better not to ask. Begrudgingly, he admits to himself that the Elrics actually seem to know what they’re doing, seem to be good at their job. When he looks at Riza, the barely-there purse of her lips is enough to tell him she’s thinking the same. Not that they’ll ever convey that to the brothers themselves. Alphonse seems polite enough, if a bit cold, but Roy still stubbornly holds to his impression that Edward is an asshole with an authority problem, and Roy doesn’t want to vindicate the man.

 _Then again,_ a bitter little voice in his mind whispers, _wouldn’t you have a problem with the military, after what they’ve done? After what_ you’ve _done,_ Hero _of Ishval?_ He draws a hand over his eyes and hopes no-one notices.

“Well, Lieutenant? What do you think?” he asks. Riza sighs.

“I still don’t like it, sir. This killer has taken down six state alchemists already, seemingly completely alone. It seems an undue amount of danger to put yourself in. Sir.” 

From the couch, Edward snorts. The sound is derisive. Mocking.

“What, the famed _Hero of Ishval_ can’t handle one murdering maniac? Lost your touch in the years since the war, Colonel?” Roy freezes. Edward says the old title with disgust, like a brand on Roy’s soul. Which it is. One he can’t shake, no matter how hard he tries or how much time passes. So, the Elrics _do_ know him, know _what_ he is, the atrocities he’s committed that he can never scrub from his soul. His eyes flicker to Riza, and it seems she’s standing a bit more rigidly, her eyes slightly wider. She’s the same as he is. A pair of monsters, war criminals, killers. A river of blood spans the space between them, the same color as Edward Elric’s eyes.

He forces the tension from his shoulders, pretends the venom in Edward’s words hasn’t ripped open a wound so old and scarred it can no longer bleed. “I will be fine, Lieutenant. Most of the victims have been research-based alchemists, not much used to combat. I won’t be that easy to kill.” He looks to Edward, tries to meet the man’s eyes unflinchingly. But those eyes, narrowed in disgust, perhaps even hatred, it’s too much. He looks away. His mind mocks him for being a coward. “How long should we run this operation for, and how often? Won’t it be obvious if I’m going out every single night?”

Alphonse nods. “We’ve worked out a tentative schedule for which days you should go out, based on which nights the streets and bars are least populated and staggered to avoid too much suspicion. We’ve also switched up which places you’ll be going and staggered them accordingly, as well, so it’s not like you’ll become a regular anywhere. Hopefully, it’ll only take a week or two to drag the killer out of whatever hole they’re hiding in.” He holds out a sheet of paper to Riza, who takes it and looks it over. She nods.

“This should work out with your schedule, sir.” To Edward she says, “I’ll get in touch with you if we come across any conflicts. Is there a convenient way to contact you?”

Edward purses his lips, looking irritated by the mere thought of the military (or perhaps Riza and Roy specifically) having an easy way to contact him. Or at least, that’s what Roy thinks, until Edward’s gaze skitters to the side and a single word leaves his mouth. “No.”

“Pardon?” Riza asks, her voice reproachful.

“There’s no real easy way to get in touch with us, at the moment. The place we’re staying...there aren’t really any telephones around that aren’t phone-booths, and it’s not like you can leave us a message on those.” He exhales loudly through his nose, face pinching. “I guess we could swing by here once a day, to make sure you don’t have any...concerns. And we’ll be tailing the Colonel during the op, so if something is _really_ urgent you could always just approach us then, as long as you’re subtle about it. Just make sure you don’t blow either of our cover, it could be-”

“With all due respect, Mr. Elric, I know how to run a stealth operation.” If Riza’s voice was cold before, the tone she turns onto the older Elric now is downright frigid. Roy feels an inkling of pride for his Lieutenant. Years and years of well deserved guilt aside, Edward is still an asshole, and it’s a little vindicating to watch Riza refused to be talked down to. Elric, though, looks _pissed._ He whips his head to the side so fast Roy is surprised his platinum hair - bound up in a long ponytail - doesn’t hit him in the face. Edward snatches his jacket from the back of Roy’s couch and pulls it on viciously as he makes for the door.

“Al, we’re going.”

“Right,” Alphonse responds, though his brother has already wrenched the door open and is halfway across the outer office. The younger Elric stands and retrieves his own jacket more calmly, but his tone is stiff and golden eyes narrow as he inclines his head to Roy and Riza in turn. “Colonel. Lieutenant.”

He closes the door behinds him as he leaves, and then the two of them are alone. As Roy is quickly learning is the norm after a visit from the Elrics, the office seems far too quiet. Roy clears his throat to dispel the silence. He expects Riza to say something, make some sort of carefully-disguised sound of distaste, but instead she simply salutes him crisply and takes her leave. Roy is left staring at the space she’s just vacated.

He stares into that space for a good long moment, before looking to his couch and the muddy boot-prints there. He slumps in his seat, air rushing out of him like a hot-air balloon, and lays his forehead down on the smooth wood of his desk. Godamnit.

His fists clench in the fabric of his sleeves. _Godamnit._ He wants so badly to run away right now, to leave behind those accusing red eyes and the knowledge of the monster he is, that he deserves every bit of that bitter mistrust. He _would_ run, like the coward he is, if he thought it would do any good. But the military doesn’t look fondly upon deserters, especially not among their state alchemists. They’d hunt him down and court-marshal him, demote him; and if Roy ever wants a chance to repent for the sins he has committed, that cannot happen. He’s got to get all the way to the top. It’s the only way he’ll be able to hold himself, and everyone responsible for the near-extinction of the Ishvalan people, accountable.

So he’ll deal with the accusation, the vitriol, the knowledge that the Elrics know _exactly_ who he is. He’ll bear it like he bears the rest of his sins, because he must. Because one day, he’ll be put to justice, his crimes absolved in fire and blood, like he deserves. He has to believe he will be, or he might just give in to his cowardice and run.

Roy lifts his head off his desk and turns to the stack of paperwork he’d been working on before Edward Elric had bust through his office door, an indignant Riza on his heels. He pulls one file toward him and picks up his pen. Right, then. As much as he longs to slack off, the only way out is through.

Al can see his brother’s retreating back, far down the hallway, but he doesn’t bother increasing his pace. He’ll catch up to Ed eventually, hopefully when the older man has calmed down a bit, and they can talk over the plan again and maybe find some food.

Honestly, he knows Ed’s not really mad because Hawkeye called him out on his sass. He’d deserved that, and they both knew it. No, it’s the way the Colonel had looked Ed in the eye and said, _“I won’t be that easy to kill.”_ Like he’d expected Ed to be a threat himself, because they’re Ishvalans so obviously they want Mustang dead, right?

 _Well, I mean…_ A small voice in his mind that sounds suspiciously like Ed says. Al ignores it. Yes, it had irked him a bit, but he hadn’t missed the way Ed’s gloved hands had clenched at his sides, his eyes positively burning with rage even as he managed to keep his expression mostly schooled. For a moment, Al was almost worried Ed _would_ leap across the desk and try to throttle Mustang, if only for the satisfaction of it. Al is honest enough with himself that he can admit it’d be a rather entertaining sight, up until his brother got shot by the Lieutenant.

“--Elric? Mr. Elric!” The voice, coming from behind him, snaps Al from his imaginings. Speaking of the Lieutenant… he turns to find her walking briskly towards him. He pauses to wait for her, inclining his head politely as she approaches. He is fully aware of the role the Hawk’s Eye played in the war against his people, her record almost as stained with Ishvalan blood as Mustang himself, but Al has never seen much point in hatred. He cannot forgive, cannot forget, but to hate either the Colonel or Lieutenant for what they have done feels like expending more of his energy than either of them deserve. And being polite has ever afforded him an advantage.

“Can I do something for you, Lieutenant Hawkeye?” His height makes it so she has to incline her head to meet his eye, once stopped in front of him, but she does so unflinchingly. Different from her superior officer, then, he realizes with some modicum more of respect. Ed had taken Mustang’s unwillingness to meet their eyes as a slight. A power play. Al though, had seen the truth of it written across the Colonel’s face, clear as day. Shame and guilt. Not an unwillingness, but an inability. A failing of character, of strength. Riza Hawkeye displays no such failing.

“I must ask you to give me your word that you will do everything within your power to protect the Colonel while undertaking this operation of yours. Can you swear to me that no harm will come to him?” Straight to the point, then. Despite himself, Al feels a sliver of irritation spark through him.

“We’re not going to leave him to fend for himself just because we’re Ishvalan, Lieu-”

“That was not my concern.” Hawkeye’s voice is even, measured. It betrays nothing of her emotional state, and Al wonders if it is something she had to practice or something that comes to her naturally. His brows raise fractionally at her interjection. “The Colonel has a tendency to be rather reckless in the field, especially if he thinks he has the advantage. I’d go so far as to say he can be foolish. You, Mr. Elric, from what I have seen, seem a man of capability and restraint. I do not trust the Colonel’s back to those outside our unit lightly. I am asking you now, can it be entrusted to you and your brother?”

Al barely restrains himself from furrowing his brow in surprise. Well, then. He squares his shoulders and offers his hand to the Lieutenant. She eyes it warily for a fraction of a moment before gripping it firmly in her own.

“I swear by Ishvala and the spirit of my late mother, Colonel Mustang will not come to harm.” He swears he sees her eyes widen, but then she nods and pulls her hand away, taking a step back.

“Thank you, Mr. Elric. I would extend a similar oath to you regarding your brother, but it seems the two of you can take care of yourselves, and I am sure he would not appreciate my help.”

“Still, I appreciate the sentiment on his behalf, Lieutenant. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Al turns to leave, his brother now completely out of sight and likely waiting impatiently for him on the steps of Eastern Command. Al can almost _hear_ his foot tapping from here.

“Your mother…” The words bring him to a halt before he can even take a step. He doesn’t turn back to Hawkeye, doesn’t want her to see the uncontrolled emotion in his eye at the very thought of Trisha Elric. “Did she...I mean, was she-” All of a sudden, Al understands. He stops his hand from balling into a fist, but it’s a near thing.

“An epidemic took her when my brother and I were children, long before the war. Her blood, at least, is not on your hands, Hawk’s Eye.”

“I see. My apologies.” Al feels something of his brother’s rage, then. _What are you apologizing for?_ He wants to shout. _For killing thousands of my Ishvalan brothers and sisters? For prying into my life as a way to either appease or exacerbate your own guilty conscious? For my_ loss _? What could you possibly know of loss; you, whose hands are drenched in the blood of my people?_ He says none of these things.

“Until tomorrow, Lieutenant.” His voice is too icy to sound polite, but at that moment he doesn’t care. He does not wait for a reply as he starts off down the hall, thoughts turning to his waiting brother, to the coming days, to anything but bloody sand and his mother’s kind crimson eyes, framed by long, white hair. Eyes closed and buried in death, like so many others now laid under the sand.


	4. The Air is Full of Smoke (and We Choke on the Dust)

The lights in the bar are dim, the room smokey, and Ed coughs into a gloved hand as his eyes track the Flame Bastard’s saunter over to the counter. Mustang smirks at the bartender and leans his elbows on the bar in a manner so callous it’s actually fucking infuriating. Ed scoffs and turns to face his brother, sitting in the booth across from him.

“I know he has to make it convincing, but we didn’t ask him to be even  _ more  _ of a bastard, did we?”

“Maybe he just comes by it naturally,” Al says with a lift to his brow that makes Ed snort. Yeah, that would make sense. Honestly, he doesn’t know why he’s surprised that Mustang is a terrible flirt. Maybe it’s the uniform, tricking him into thinking the man has a professional bone in his body. Then again, Mustang isn’t wearing the uniform  _ now,  _ instead dressed in a red button-down and black jacket combo, haphazardly pulled up to his elbow. The first night of their little operation it had almost been disconcerting, seeing the Colonel in anything other than his military blues. Now, like everything else about the man, Ed just finds it irritating.

He and Al are seated in the corner of the bar, far enough away that they can’t hear the Colonel’s conversation. By the look of his stupid leer, though, Ed’s sure its something equally idiotic. And the bastard hasn’t even been  _ drinking.  _ So, like Al had suggested, he must be naturally that inane. Ed rolls his eyes and does nothing to mask the distasteful quirk of his mouth. He doesn’t know if he can take another three hours of this shit, much less another week.

Because it’s  _ been  _ a week already, and still no sign of their killer. Sure, there are some similarities in patrons across the establishments they’ve been posted up in, but none that have so much as given Mustang a dirty look. Of course, Ed still keeps a detailed record of their descriptions in his notebook just in case. Sometimes, he daydreams what it would be like to see the grisled old lady they’ve seen a handful of times go after the Colonel, or the pretty blond with the - oh, that’s the Lieutenant. Ed has to hand it to the woman, she’s damn good at keeping her cover. She’s even fooled  _ him  _ a few times, so he can’t imagine that Mustang could even pick her out of a crowd, if he had to. Ed has the strong suspicion  _ she’s  _ very much aware of all of  _ them,  _ though. The thought isn’t a comforting one. The Hawk’s Eye never misses, after all, and he still hasn’t been able to shake that paranoid feeling that maybe the military’s just looking for an easy way to take he and Al out. But if that were the case…

_ “She asked me to keep the Colonel safe. Seemed very serious about it, too. Chased me down the hall and everything,”  _ Al had said. That doesn’t exactly add up, if she’s planning on killing them. Ed sighs. He’ll just have to trust her to have their backs, at the moment. Though he’d rather not have to rely on her support at all. In fact, he wishes they didn’t need the Colonel here, but the whole plan hinges on Mustang so Ed supposes he can bear it. 

At least, he  _ could.  _ If the bastard would stop being so fucking maddening. The thing is, though, Ed isn’t convinced this isn’t Mustang’s default setting. He sure as shit hasn’t seen anything from the Flame bastard that would indicate otherwise. How the hell is this guy a nationally renowned state alchemist? The more he watches Mustang, the more of a mystery the guy is. Because he  _ looks  _ stupider than a bag of rocks,  _ acts  _ like a high-and-mighty, superficial bastard, and yet he somehow managed to reach Colonel at the same age as Ed himself. It doesn’t make any  _ fucking  _ sense. Is it nepotism? It has to be.

Ed passes a hand over his eyes and takes a long drink from his beer. Yeah, they’d told the Colonel not to drink, but there’s no way Ed’s getting through this stake-out without a little liquid courage. Or, in his case, liquid patience. And besides, Al doesn’t drink, so he’s covered.

Even though they’re twenty feet away in a crowded, noisy room, Ed can hear the Colonel laugh loudly at something or another and fights the urge to roll his eyes. He knows, logically, that Mustang is  _ meant  _ to be drawing attention to himself. Except all Ed wants to do is forget the bastard exists, even if  _ he’s  _ meant to be watching him. Sure, Al could cover that too, and would do it better than Ed ever could (because frankly, Al is better than he is at most things), but Ed isn’t about to use his little brother like that. They share the load, always have. Taking care of their mom when she got sick, sharing their school notes with each other because one of them always had to stay home to look after her. When their mom died, they both did what they had to do to stay alive. When the war came, they  _ both  _ decided to fight for their people, side by side. And after the war, they both dealt with the scars it left behind, depending on each other to heal the wounds they couldn’t on their own. It’s just the way it is for them. And while Ed is grateful for his brother,  _ knows  _ he couldn’t have made it this far on his own, there are times he feels guilt.

Guilt, for dragging his brother into a war that turned Al’s warm eyes and easy smiles into something crisp, calculating. Dangerous. Turned him into a person who’s always looking for an opening, an advantage, no matter how useful that skill is in their line of work. Guilt for not trying harder to convince Al that he could choose his own life, after the war. He didn’t  _ have  _ to follow Ed into whatever idiotic, reckless situation he managed to get himself into. Even if that meant that Ed would be dead about a hundred times over, at this point, it’d be worth it if his little brother could smile like he used to. Then again, neither of them are what they were, now. Ed knows it’s naive to think that either of them can go back to being those people, those  _ children,  _ after the horrors they’ve seen. No. No, they can’t go back.

“Brother.” Al taps the back of his left hand to gain his attention. When Ed looks up, Al inclines his head almost imperceptible, his eyes going to something on the other side of the bar. Without turning his head too much, Ed follows his line of sight. In the opposite corner, sitting alone, there’s a large man wearing a hood and sunglasses. Indoors. That’s damned suspicious on its own, coupled with the fact that the man isn’t eating or anything. He’s got an untouched glass of water in front of him. And though Ed can’t see exactly where his gaze is directed behind the sunglasses, he’s turned toward Mustang, and he isn’t moving. Like he’s just… staring.

“Well that’s damned creepy,” Ed mutters, flipping open his notebook to jot down what attributes of the man he can see. Approximate height, weight, build. Outfit. There isn’t much else he can make out at the moment. “Have we seen this guy before?”

Al shakes his head. “Not at any of the other bars, and not before tonight.”

“Well then it might just be our lucky day, huh, Al?”

Al gives him an unamused look, but his lips twitch in the way that shows he’s trying not to smile at Ed’s dumb antics. Ed tears a page out of his notebook and scrawls, “ _Corner booth, right of the front door. Big guy, sunglasses,”_ and hands the paper to Al. The next time the waitress comes by to ask if they’d like a refill, his brother gives her his best charming smile and asks if she could please take this note to the lovely blonde woman in the tan jacket, at the bar. Al’s eyes are warm, honey-gold, and Ed has to bite down on a snicker as the waitress blushes and practically trips over herself to accommodate him. As soon as she’s out of sight, Al’s smile drops.

“Why is that always  _ my  _ job?” Al doesn’t whine, because he’s twenty-eight and a damned deadly warrior, but the words are as close to whining as he gets. Ed smirks at him.

“Aren’t you always reminding me how I’m not a ‘people person’, dear brother? Plus, you know people tend to clam up as soon as they get a good look into my eyes. There’s plenty of charming, young, non-Ishvalan men with dark skin and white hair; so it’s better that you handle,” he waves his hand vaguely, face twisting into mock disgust, “people.”

Al scoffs and leans back in his seat, crossing his arms. 

“I am not  _ charming.  _ I just have manners.” Al doesn’t pout, either. Really. The downward quirk of his lips turns into something more amused, teasing. “Unlike a certain someone I know.”

Ed looks around the bar, eyebrows raised. “Mustang?”

Al laughs lightly, and Ed counts it as a win. At least until his brother says, “Hate him all you want, brother, but the Ash Colonel still has better manners than you.”

“Like hell that bastard does!” How can Al say that, when Mustang refuses to look at them any time he sees them, looking down on them from behind his stupid desk? Well, not looking, because he wont fucking  _ look  _ at them - which pisses Ed off to no end - but obviously thinking himself high and mighty and so far above them, lowly Ishvalan half-breeds. Ed’s right hand clenches tightly on the tabletop. Al notices, because of course he notices, and he sighs.

“I didn’t mean anything by it, brother. And besides, I think he’s more--” he trails off as his gaze catches something to Ed’s left. “ _ Shit!  _ Time to go, Ed. The colonel’s gone, and so’s the sunglasses guy.”

_ Shit,  _ indeed. Ed lets out his own string of expletives and grabs his coat, as Al pulls a handful of cenz notes from his wallet and drops them on the table. They’re out the door and onto the street in under a minute, quickly surveying the area outside the building. No Mustang anywhere to be found. Without any words exchanged between them, they start out along the route they’d mapped out in advance to the derelict townhouse, the same route they’ve trailed the Colonel down four times this week. The farther they get without hide nor hair of Mustang, the more Ed’s heart rate seems to increase, some uncomfortable feeling curling in his gut and rising into his chest. He feels slightly lightheaded and thinks he shouldn’t have had that beer.  _ Damnit, Ed.  _ This is what he gets for not doing his fucking job right in the first place.

If the Colonel gets murdered without them even catching a glimpse of the killer, they’re royally fucked. Not in the least because the Hawk’s Eye will probably kill them herself, and wouldn’t that just be appropriate? If the Colonel dies or gets hurt at all they’ll have to answer to his Adjunct, and that’s something Ed really, really does not want to do.

They’re seven minutes or so down the street when a column of flame flickers in the edge of Ed’s vision, and he flinches violently on instinct, barely refraining from throwing himself to the cobbles and tackling Al down with him. A glance over to his brother shows that Al’s stance has widened, spreading out into a battle position, hand hovering over the holster they both know he keeps at the small of his back. Purely a reactionary move, from both of them, but they don’t have time to get overwhelmed right now. Ed starts running in the direction of the flame, ever too aware not to get too close. Its down a side-street, off to his right, and in the silence right after the roar of another blast, he shouts down the road.

“Watch the flames, you bastard! We’re here to help!” He draws his own gun but doesn’t flick the safety off just yet, unsure of where exactly the Colonel is in relation to himself and what the situation is. He can feel Al just behind him, ready to take his cues and watch his back. There’s no verbal answer from Mustang, which is worrying, but the flames do stop. Pistol pointed at the cobbles, Ed advances quickly but cautiously down the street, pausing just before he rounds the corner where he’s pretty sure the Colonel is. He sucks in a breath and lets it out slow. He holds a hand up over his shoulder and counts down on his fingers for Al, and takes the safety off his gun but doesn’t cock it, not yet. Three. Two.

On one, they both round the corner. Ed is expecting to see Mustang and their killer in a stand-off, a little ways down the street. He’s unpleasantly surprised when someone knocks the gun out of his hand and slams a booted foot into his stomach, knocking him back a few feet and stealing the air from his body in a rush. He gasps and coughs violently for just a second, just long enough to recover a bit. He hears Al’s gun go off to his right. Shifting into a crouch, Ed does the best he can to assess their position. Mustang is down the alley, backed up against a dumpster to their right. He looks rumpled and out of breath but otherwise unharmed, but Ed can’t be totally sure from this far away. The big guy in the sunglasses is closer, ducked behind some shipping crates to avoid Al’s shot. Ed’s own gun is lying on the cobbles a few feet away, equidistant to both him  _ and  _ their suspect. Sunglasses seems to realize this at the same time as Ed.  _ Shit.  _

The big guy darts out from behind the crates. Going for the gun, but before he can reach it a blast of flame rips across his back, catching him by surprise. He calls out in pain and shock and halts, stripping off his now-flaming jacket. Ed presses down the rush of panic he feels at being so close to the flame and snatches up his gun before retreating to Al’s side. The suspect has turned his gaze on Mustang now, his body language absolutely  _ furious,  _ though Ed still can’t see his eyes. He seems to have enough self-preservation not to make a move with two guns and a human weapon pointed at him, but there’s hatred rolling off of him in waves. He’s completely still for a moment. Likely weighing the chances he has of killing the Colonel regardless, and seems to come to a conclusion he doesn’t like, if his snarl of anger is anything to go off of. 

“Stand down,” Mustang orders, voice strong and sure despite his obvious exhaustion, “You’re cornered and we have more than sufficient evidence to arrest you.” The man doesn’t move, or relax. Mustang lifts one gloved hand, threatening. “Stand. Down. I won’t ask again.”

Ed knows he should be watching their suspect, but in that moment he can’t help the way his hackles raise as he looks at Mustang. Did the bastard’s victims in Ishval ever get such a warning? Such a chance, to continue their lives? Fucking doubtful. He’s so busy glowering at the Colonel that he doesn’t see the suspect move until there’s a flash of blue light and the sound of crumbling stone. Mustang calls out in surprise and alarm, and Ed turns his attention quickly back to the suspect, but there’s too much dust now to make out where the hell he is. Ed coughs and chokes on the dust, blinks it out of his eyes, lowers his gun and covers his mouth and nose with a sleeve to help him breathe. Beside him, he can hear Al’s choked-up coughs, as well.

When the dust finally clears enough to see, their suspect is gone, and two walls of the butcher’s shop to their left have been entirely obliterated.

“ _ Fuck!”  _ Ed swear vehemently, kicking spitefully at a small stone and sending it skittering into the rest of the rubble. He can hear Al sigh beside him and the safety of a gun clicking on, before a comforting hand is on his shoulder. He turns his head to look at Al. His brother’s brow is furrowed in frustration, his mouth twisted into an upset frown, but his eyes are as controlled as ever. Ed grounds himself in those golden eyes and takes a few breaths, still dusty, to settle himself. He switches the safety back on his gun and holsters it at his back. Looking past Al, he’s surprised to find Hawkeye there, doing the same. When had she--? Well, he supposes it doesn’t really matter, since they lost the guy.  _ Damnit. _

“What the hell was that?” At first, Ed thinks the Mustang is referring to the fact that Ed hadn’t shot when he’d had the chance, so distracted by his anger at the Colonel. But there’s nothing accusing in his voice, and he’s not looking at Ed. Instead, he's staring intently at the rubble the suspect had left behind.

“It was alchemy, Colonel. But...it looks like it stopped at the deconstruction of matter, rather than deconstructing and reconstructing it.” Al’s the one to answer him, and Ed fights a snort of derision aimed at the Colonel. Shouldn’t a renowned state alchemist be able to tell these things? Mustang, though, is looking at Al curiously.

“I thought Ishvalans resented alchemy. How do you know that much about it?”

Al’s tone is cool as he answers. “We’re mercenaries, Colonel. Bounty hunters. We hunt all sorts of law-breakers, alchemists included. How are we supposed to be effective at our job if we don’t study the skill-sets of those we hunt, if we don’t understand what it is we’re up against?”

“Know thy enemy, and all that,” Ed tacks on, with a pointed look in Mustang’s direction, which the bastard ignores.

“Did you get a good look at the suspect?” Hawkeye asks from behind him. Ed fights the urge to turn his body so both the Colonel and Lieutenant are in his line of sight, his back to the wall of the alley, protected. He nods.

“Not his face, because he still had on those damned glasses. Which, who the hell wears sunglasses at night? Anyway, everything else I got a pretty good look at. Especially the tattoo.”

Mustang looks confused. “Tattoo?”

“Do you  _ ever  _ pay attention, you bastard? His whole right arm was covered in this big tattoo. I recognized some alchemical symbols, but the rest looked like gibberish to me. Al?” He turns to his brother, hoping for some answers, but Al just shrugs.

“Didn’t look familiar to me. We could look into it, though.”

“Please, if you don’t mind.” The Colonel says. In the distance, Ed hears sirens, getting closer. Someone must have heard part of the building collapse and called the police. He’s not a huge fan of MPs, so he’d rather not be here when they show up. 

“You ready to go, Al? We can leave the Colonel and Lieutenant to explain what happened here, and get the Colonel’s report of what happened before we showed up tomorrow.” Al nods. Ed expects the Colonel to try and stop them, make them hang around and talk to the police, but he doesn’t. In fact, he doesn’t do anything other than return Ed’s curt nod as he and Al turn to go. That is, until they’re already a ways down the street. Then, Mustang calls out,

“Mr. Elric!” Both he and Al turn. “Thank you for your help. Your plan worked without a hitch, and I likely would have been injured if you hadn’t showed up when you did.”

Ed can feel his brows go up at the words of thanks. Could it be the bastard actually  _ does  _ have some measure of professionalism, after all? Ed turns around and keeps walking, calling out over his shoulder,

“Whatever, bastard. Just don’t make a habit of almost getting killed, we wont always be around to save your ass.”

He swears he hears the Colonel chuckle as he and Al walk away, but the thought passes quickly from his mind at the thought of going back to their hostel and collapsing into a bedroll beside his brother. They’re both alive, still. Tomorrow may bring something else, another fight, but those worries come with the dawn. For now, under the cover of night, Ed can let himself relax. Just a bit. It’s not always a gift, to be alive. To be haunted with the ghosts of his past and the responsibility of his present. But it is always a blessing that he remains at his brother’s side. 

He turns his head to look at Al, and catches his brother’s gaze. Al gives him a small, tired smile. It isn’t the huge, sunny grin of their childhood, doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but for Ed it’s enough. He slings an arm across his brother’s back (and ignores how he’s not nearly tall enough to place it across Al’s shoulders), hand gripping the fabric of Al’s jacket loosely.

“Good job today, little brother.”

Al lifts an eyebrow. “He got away.”

“Yeah, but you kept your promise to the Lieutenant, didn’t you?”

Al’s eyes go far-away for a moment, before the small smile returns, perhaps a little more rueful than before. “Yeah.”

Ed returns his smile, letting go of Al’s jacket to instead reach up to ruffle his brother’s hair, which Al grumbles about. Ed ignores him. They made it out of another fight, unharmed and alive. It’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the longest one yet, to make up for how long it took to get it out to you. It's finals week, so I won't be able to update for the next few days at least, so hopefully it was enough to tide you over and assuage your curiosity til then. Elric backstory! Fighting! Getting a glimpse of Scar, at last! Excitement? No Roy POV this chapter, but he'll show up again next chapter, don't you worry!


	5. A Breath in the Quiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRUH this chapter is so short but I wanted to post something to let y'all know i still remember this fic exists! I hope you enjoy!

Al is used to waking to warm light and close air, his brother no more than an arm’s length away. In his mind, this is how it should be, but he is aware the sentiment is mostly a product of past necessity. Years spent lying in a tent on desert sand or grimy cobble stones, the future beyond a few days a mirage on the dunes. Alphonse is aware their lifestyle doesn’t precisely scream “sustainable _ , _ ” but it’s worked out so far, so he’s content to keep on in the same fashion. At least until Ishvala provides him a different path.

These are thoughts that run through his mind in those still, quiet moments before Ed wakes up, sunlight and chilly morning air seeping through the canvas of their tent. Al savors these moments, his line of work being what it is; when he has no obligations other than to be at his brother’s side. He lies there for a moment more, but sooner than he would like Al knows it’s time to get up. There is work to be done, after all. He sits up carefully, careful not to wake his brother; a task most would find hard-pressed but comes as second nature to Alphonse, years of practice making his movements smooth and precise. He takes some clothes and a cake of soap and exits the tent, fastening the flap behind him.

Their tent is tucked in an alley between two tenements, and overhead clotheslines criss-cross the open air; creating a strange sort of dusk on the ground, though Al can see by the shadows in the street beyond that it is well past dawn. Behind one of the tenements is a shower stall, and as Al starts off towards it he begins going through the events of the coming day in his mind. He usually does not wake up so early before Ed, but he’s made an executive decision that there are some parts of the investigation his brother doesn’t exactly need to be privy to.

Al isn’t stupid. He realizes the suspect from the night prior had been Ishvalan. It is a truth he knows his brother will not see, not because Ed is unintelligent, but because of his heart. He will not want to believe that they could be hunting one of their own brothers, and so he will not. Al is not prone to such oversights. Perhaps once, when he was more trusting and less scarred he would have been, but then he wouldn’t be so good at his job. The bottom line is he needs to conduct some interviews, but Ed doesn’t need to be there while he does.

He showers quickly and sets off down the dusty road.

The morning prayers have already begun when Ed wakes up, he can hear the throaty chanting from open windows above him. He grumbles, but pulls himself up onto his knees and joins them, finding some measure of peace in the routine. This peace is somewhat offset by the time he fully awakens and finds that Alphonse is not beside him. There is a moment of panic, blood rushing to his head and his stomach dropping into his feet, before the blood rushing in his ears clears enough to hear Al’s voice filtering in from outside the tent. Ed sighs deeply and tries to slow his suddenly racing heart as he dresses quickly. His stomach rumbles as he pulls a loose shirt over his head. When he at last emerges from the tent, he finds Al chatting amicably with an elderly Ishvalan woman who Ed recognizes as living in the tenement next door. In Al’s hand there’s a small clay bowl filled with dates.

When Al notices him, he smiles warmly and holds out the bowl, though Ed can tell the smile is mostly for the benefit of the old lady. Indeed, when Ed turns to her to introduce himself he finds her blushing.  _ Sure Al, “not charming” my ass. I know you do this on purpose, little- _

“A pleasure to meet you,  _ sayidati.  _ I am Alphonse’s older brother, Edward. I hope he’s not been too much trouble for you.” Al scoffs at this, but Ed simply smiles at the woman.

“I am no longer a child that needs looking after, brother,” Al says, sounding as indignant as he ever does in public. Ed turns to him.

“No, of course not. Sorry, Al.”

Al simply narrows his eyes, like he isn’t sure if Ed is being sincere or patronizing him. But the old woman laughs good naturedly at their antics, and this gets Al off his back. For now at least, though Ed has no doubt he’ll be paying for this in some form or another down the road. He’ll take it to his grave that he thinks so, but his little brother is sort of terrifying.

They bid a quick goodbye to the woman, whose name Ed learns is Mariam. He scarfs down the dates as he and Al make their way to Eastern Command, languidly, neither in much of a hurry to see the Colonel. Let the bastard wait. Make him sweat a bit. On their way they pass at least ten WANTED posters, all sporting a vague sketch of the man they’d seen last night. Ed points one out to Al.

“That was fast. You think they had every military courier in the city up before dawn just to put up some flyers?” Al pauses briefly and regards the poster, a hand on his chin.

“Well it certainly  _ looks  _ like a rush job. Honestly, who’s supposed to identify anyone from a sketch this shoddy? Even you could do better, brother.”

“I feel like I should be insulted. I have a pretty steady hand, you know.” But Ed is smiling, because it’s not all the time Al is willing to play along with his shenanigans.

“Then maybe you should speak to the Colonel about revising the posters yourself, hm?” Al says, the way he’s side-eyeing Ed the only hint of his amusement. In answer, Ed just laughs and shakes his head, and they pass the rest of the walk to Command in a comfortable silence.

When they enter the outer office, the room is a bustle of activity, but not the kind that seems born from any desire to get things done. Papers are strewn haphazardly across desks and most of Mustang’s unit are huddled around one man that Al has never seen before, who seems to be rifling a little too excitedly through a stack of photographs. The man looks up when the door clicks shut, and Al is surprised by the sharp intelligence he sees there; in the eyes of a man who seconds before had been babbling animatedly about what Al could only assume were the photographs in his hands.

“Well it seems you have guests, men,” the stranger says, still smiling. Mustang’s suad seem to turn collectively, almost comically, looking altogether like schoolchildren caught avoiding their work in favor of something mischievous. Alphonse thinks of Lieutenant Hawkeye and only finds the comparison more apt for it. He thinks to introduce himself, but the stranger beats him to it, offering a hand.

“Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes, gentlemen. I presume you’re the contractors brought in to help Roy with the alchemist killer?”

Al shakes Hughes hand and finds the man has the same firm iron grip as Lieutenant Hawkeye. By the creator, are  _ all  _ of Mustang’s subordinates leagues more honorable than the Colonel himself? He hid the way this thought made his blood boil behind a polite smile.

“Yes, Lieutenant Colonel Hughes. I am Alphonse Elric and this is my elder brother, Edward.” Ed shakes Hughes hand with far less respect and enthusiasm.  _ Well _ , Al laments inwardly,  _ he at least shook his hand _ .

“Please, call me Maes. Honestly, I’m glad you’re here: we can always use more people around to force Roy to do his job.” The quip is met with laughs from the squad, and Al cracks a smile. He is suspicious of this stranger, with his sharp eyes, but for now Maes Hughes seems a man with manners and good humor, at least. He looks from the corner of his eye to see Ed nearly succeeding at fighting down a vicious smirk. 

Al hides a smirk of his own, meets Hughes’ eye, and says, “Actually, my brother wanted to stop by today to offer the Colonel his services as a sketch artist.” He leans in slightly, tone going conspiratorial. “He’s really quite passionate about art, you should have seen him worked up over the state of the Wanted posters we say today.” 

For a moment, you could hear a pen drop in the office. Lt. Havoc’s mouth is hanging open, cigarette dangling precariously. St. Fury hides wordless, helpless giggles behind both hands, and Edward is  _ fuming.  _ Al maintains his poker face, maintains eye contact with Hughes.

Who bursts out into full-bellied laughter. 

_ Yes,  _ Al decides. This one, at least, doesn’t seem so bad.


	6. The Sun Arrives (and We Are Not Saved)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an actual decently long chapter for you all, sorry for the wait since the last one; and thank you all very much for your patience! Please enjoy!

Roy loves the man, but Maes Hughes is a holy terror. He’s better at pushing Roy’s buttons than anyone else, and Maes knows it. Of course, the intelligence officer would rather refer to it as “getting Roy out of his comfort zone,” but Roy usually just labels it “irritating.” For example, it’s _irritating_ when Roy is finally able to free himself from the mountain of paperwork that had followed the stakeout debacle; only to find Maes in the outer office, an Elric brother tucked under either arm. Both brothers are smiling, though Alphonse (as in most things) seems more restrained, the quirk of his lips more polite than Edward’s grin. None of Roy’s team have noticed him standing in the doorway quite yet, and he takes the time to gather himself and his thoughts before having to deal with the Elrics. Yes, they’ve been civil thus far. At the very least they haven’t tried to throttle him, but he figures that with Edward at least it’s been a near thing. Alphonse, though, he can’t get a read on for the life of him, and it’s frustrating.

“Roy!” Maes says, and suddenly seven pairs of eyes snap to the doorway where he’s standing. Roy carefully avoids crimson and gold, instead meeting the eyes of his best friend, who clutches a stack of photographs in his hands like they’re the most precious treasures in the world. Knowing how Maes feels about his family, they probably are.

“Lieutenant Colonel Hughes, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” Roy tries not to smirk, really he does, it’s just that something about the presence of his team and the Elrics in the office makes it easier to slip into his persona of cock-sure, charming Colonel Mustang; as opposed to just Roy. Haunted, bloodied, weak Roy. The thoughts curl like smoke through the back of his mind. He pushes them away.

“Well I bought a new camera recently, and you wouldn’t _believe_ how much better it can capture the beauty of my glorious Gracia and Elicia; so I had to come and show you, of course.” Maes holds up the stack of photographs in indication. Roy sighs.

“You do realize we’re in the middle of an investigation here, don’t you?” He says, knowing even as the words leave his mouth that they’re futile. Maes has already released his grip on the Elrics and is approaching Roy, excitedly sifting through photographs to find what Roy can only assume to be his favorites. 

“See here, this one was during our trip to the park last weekend. Elicia found the most perfectly colored leaf Roy, I swear that girl is an artist already! But _oh,_ Roy it’s not fair, she gave it to a _boy_ she met on the playground! Can you _believe_ \--oh, my heart just can’t take it!” Maes is rambling, and into Roy’s face he thrusts a polaroid of Elicia with the aforementioned leaf, holding it up next to her face with a wide grin. Roy isn’t blind, he has to begrudgingly admit that it’s an adorable picture. Maes continues to flip through pictures and ramble on, and Roy finds himself tuning out and focusing his attention over Maes’ shoulder instead, where Havoc and Breda have engaged the Elric brothers in a discussion of their travels.

“Where are you from originally? I’ve never seen anyone with golden eyes before.” Breda says, and Roy wants to smack him upside the head for his lack of tact. Alphonse, at least, doesn’t seem phased.

“We’re from Resembool, actually. It’s a small town, a few stops from East City by South-bound train. I was told that I inherited my eyes from my father, but I don’t know where he was from.” Roy doesn’t miss the way Edward’s hands clench at the mention of their father. There’s a story there, Roy is sure of it, but at this juncture there’s no way to find out what exactly that story is. It’s not like the Elrics exactly trust him.

“Hm,” Havoc makes a humming sound, and Roy just knows that whatever comes out of the second lieutenant’s mouth is going to make him want to self-immolate. “So your mother is Ishvalan, then?” The polite smile freezes on Alphonse’s face. Static. He’s still smiling, but it’s gone cold.

“She was, yes. Is that going to be a problem, Lieutenant Havoc?” _Was. Was. Was._ The word echoes through Roy’s head and for a moment all he can see is red sand and red eyes staring sightlessly, the crumpled form of an Ishvalan woman; two brothers frantically trying to wake her as the flames grow higher, closer, the world turning red-

“No, of course not. You’re giving us quite the hand with this case, the higher-ups can bicker about the blood in your veins all they want, but they aren’t gonna hear nothing from me.” Havoc says, and lights a cigarette. The flame dances in the Elrics’ eyes for half a second. Roy feels sick.

“Or me. As far as I’m concerned, you could be half chimera and I’d still thank you for protecting our useless Colonel’s back last night. Which, by the way, thanks.” The Elric brothers look pleasantly surprised at the answers they receive, and Roy most certainly does not pout at the “useless” comment, even as pride in his team springs to life in his chest. Yes, they may have a complete and utter lack of tact, but they’re good people. Trustworthy and true. It’s more than Roy can say about himself. 

"Roy, are you even listening to me?” Maes says petulantly, and Roy snaps his gaze back to the pictures. But instead of a picture, Maes is holding out a folded piece of paper between them. When Roy looks up at him in confusion, Maes just winks and holds a finger to his mouth. Roy takes the paper and tucks it in his pants pocket. Then Maes steps away.

“Well if you aren’t going to listen I’ll just get going then,” he says with an affected pout. “Make sure you finish that paperwork for the operation last night, so us humble servants in Intelligence can help you out a bit, yeah?” He turns then to the Elric brothers, and offers each of them a hand in turn. Both shake Maes’ hand with a firm grip, offering up twin polite smiles, and then the bespectacled man is out the door, whistling his way down the hall. Roy is left in the outer office with his team and the Elrics, feeling distinctly like he’s missed something. Or several things, but at this moment he can only handle one at a time. 

“Something I can help you with, gentlemen?” he asks the Elrics, and Havoc and Breda turn quickly back to their paperwork, Falman snickering at them. Edward snorts.

“Damn, that big guy must have knocked you around harder than I thought, Colonel. We said before we left the scene last night that we’d swing by to get your report of what happened between leaving the bar and us showing up to the fight. So, here we are.” He strides past Roy, and the dark haired man notices for the first time that Edward is a few inches shorter than him. Alphonse, by comparison, is a few inches taller than Roy. Edward passes him in the doorway and turns to look back over his shoulder. “Well?”

Roy grits his teeth in annoyance and goes back into his office, gesturing Alphonse through in a way that he hopes seems accommodating instead of patronizing. Edward wastes no time in veritably tossing himself onto the couch and throwing his feet up, while Alphonse takes a more measured approach and sits rather rigidly on the couch opposite his brother. Roy closes the door before taking a seat behind his desk. He gives his mind a moment to summon up the details of last night’s stakeout and subsequent confrontation with the suspected alchemist killer. When he’s sure that he’s got the timeline right, he begins,

“He began tailing me almost as soon as I left the bar. He couldn’t have left more than a minute after I did, and yet he seemed to hang back until I got to a less crowded street. I was acting drunk, but I don’t think he believed me. He asked me if I was the Flame Alchemist. He asked me if my name was Roy Mustang. I didn’t answer, but I don’t think he was really looking for one, because he attacked me anyway. When he came at me, he was unarmed. It was like he was... _reaching_ for me. When you pointed out the tattoos, I figured they must have something to do with it, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what exactly. I used some fire to keep him off me long enough for you to arrive. You know the rest.” Roy is looking at Alphonse as he speaks, because meeting Edward’s eyes is still difficult, and he can nearly see the gears turning in the younger mercenary’s head.

“We have some theories on the tattoo…” he says.

“But you’re not going to like them.” Edward buts in. Alphonse shoots his brother a reproachful look that nearly makes Roy snicker. Nearly. Instead, he pinches his thigh under the desk and manages to sound completely serious when he asks,

“Oh? What are these theories, pray tell?”

“It’s alchemy. That much is clear. Only, it’s alchemy that stops at the the deconstruction of matter, rather than deconstructing and reconstructing. He’s...he’s all destruction. I don’t know if he’s even capable _of_ reconstruction. And he doesn’t use a transmutation circle, at least not in the way that we usually think of them.”

“And there can only be a handful of explanations for _that,_ ” Edward says, and something in his voice is dark, nearly haunted. Roy looks at him with curious eyes that neither brother acknowledge, but Edward’s face is clear of any emotion except, perhaps, irritation.

“Those reasons being…?”

“For starters, people who have seen beyond the Gate. But if the alchemist killer has preformed human transmutation, then why the hell is he going around _killing_ alchemists?” Edward’s brow furrows in what could be frustration, confusion, or a healthy mix of both. At the current subject matter, Roy’s eyes narrow. 

“And you know this how?” Edward rolls his eyes, but it’s Alphonse who answers.

“Purely theoretical research and conducting interviews, remember Colonel? Are you certain you didn’t damage your head at all in last night’s scuffle?” The tone Alphonse adopts is one of detached concern, but if Edward’s smirk is anything to go off of, Roy is being made fun of. He sighs and doesn’t justify Alphonse’s statement with a response. Instead, he simply asks,

“And the other ways someone could transmute without a circle?”

“Long story short, we just don’t know. There’s not enough information yet. Al says that he vaguely remembers something about Xingese alchemy, but until we’re able to look into it further, that’s all we got. Which is the second reason we’re here to see your ugly mug,” Edward stands and approaches the desk, and suddenly Roy has nowhere to look but into eyes of deep crimson. Edward is holding out a hand and saying something, but the sound of blood rushing through his ears prevents Roy from hearing it.

“Excuse me?”

“Your pocket watch, _sir_. We need to borrow it so we can get into the military library here in East City. So, if you please.” For a moment, all Roy can do is stare at Edward’s gloved hand, outstretched towards him. It’s not like he’s particularly attached to his pocket watch, or afraid the Elrics wont return it; no, it’s the fear that they’ll figure out some way to open it that fills him with hesitation and the sense of looming dread. A piece of paper, faded, with a scribbled date and a list of names. The likelihood the Elric brothers would even understand the meaning, even if they did somehow manage to open the watch he’d sealed shut with alchemy, was slim. So really, he shouldn’t be so nervous.

At least, that’s what he keeps trying to tell himself as he pulls the watch from his pants pocket, unclips it from his belt, and hands it over into Edward Elric’s outstretched hand. Edward weighs it in his hand for a moment, looking down at it appraisingly. Evidently he finds something about the watch lacking, because he frowns and puts it into his pocket without any more ceremony, then turns away.

“Thanks. You ready to go, Al?”

Alphonse nods in affirmation and stands, smoothing his overcoat and giving Roy a smaller, nearly imperceptible nod of departure. Then they’re gone. The door to his office clicks shut and Roy sags in his chair, hands coming up to cradle his head. It seems that he is always going to be exhausted after a visit from the Elric brothers. Honestly, if he only had to deal with Alphonse it might not be so bad, the man certainly seems to know how to keep a professional distance. No, it’s the holy terror of Edward Elric that always seems to know _exactly_ how to push Roy’s buttons, to leave him feeling like his guilt is eating a hole through him. 

Letting out a sigh, Roy glances past the edge of his desk to the floor, and finds a scrap of folded paper resting near his foot. When he picks it up, he recognizes it as the note Maes had slipped to him earlier. It must have fallen out of his pocket when he got his watch out. Curious as to what Maes could have been so secretive about, Roy unfolds the note, and goes cold at what he reads there.

“Elrics compromised. Watch yourself.” And he’s just let them make off with his pocket watch, with full access to the military library of East City. _Fuck._


	7. Golden Tiger, Flaming Demon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is by far the longest chapter of this fic I've posted yet; so hopefully it'll make up for the wait! There's QUITE a bit of Elric backstory in this fic. As the tags say, I'm taking my own liberties with canon, and a good portion of that is the circumstances surrounding the Ishvalan War. Hope you enjoy!

Al watches his brother slip the state alchemist’s pocket watch into his jacket before Falman and Havoc can look up from their work. In the time they were in the Colonel’s office, Breda has disappeared somewhere and Lieutenant Hawkeye has returned, attending to her own paperwork but occasionally scanning over the rest of her team with a watchful eye. With a small amount of amusement, Al wonders if she knows just how quickly they abandon their work in favor of goofing off when she isn’t around. If her vigilance is anything to go by, she’s fully aware of their...lazier proclivities.

“Lieutenant.” Al nods to her as they pass, and she returns it. Meets Ed’s eyes and then his own as they pass her desk. 

“Mr. Elric, Mr. Elric. I assume you’ve finished your debriefing with the Colonel, yes? A pity that I missed it.” Al can’t tell if she’s sorry because she missed the information they had or because she missed the chance to see them get a rise out of Mustang, or vice versa. He sees Ed smirk out of the corner of his eye.

“A pity indeed, Lieutenant.” Ed says over his shoulder. He’s got the door to the hall open already, and is stepping through when Hawkeye calls out again.

Mr. Alphonse?” Al freezes, surprised to hear his first name in her even, cool tone. Not unkind, but still respectful. Professional. He turns.

“Yes, Ms. Hawkeye?” He can’t resist it, returning the favor. Her face holds none of the surprise he feels, and he wonders if that means she’s just good at hiding it. Then again, so is he.

“Thank you, for keeping your oath.”

“You doubted me?”

“Not at all. As I have said, you seem a man of capability. After watching you work in the past weeks, I would say my assessment has proven itself true. I thank you, all the same.”

Al inclines his head. “Think nothing of it, Lieutenant. It’s why we’re here, after all.”  _ I didn’t do it for you.  _ With that, he turns and strides from the office, Ed halting in the doorway and then falling in behind. When they’ve walked a ways down the hall in silence, Ed turns to him, something like a smirk on his face, if not for the sharp edge in his eyes.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Al, but were you just  _ flirting  _ with the Hawk’s Eye?” Al meets his gaze unflinchingly. 

“Consider yourself corrected, brother. I did no such thing. It was, I believe, called being civil. Perhaps you should try it at some point?” He knows the jab is unfair, knows that Ed’s passionate nature makes him more sensitive, more prone to outburst. Ed knows that Al knows, can see it on his face, and so he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t prod. Because the Elric brothers know when and what to say to each other to get their point across perfectly every time, but they also know when to stop talking. They walk the rest of the way out of the building in companionable silence.

Al was not _ flirting _ with Hawkeye. He wasn’t. He’s flirted before, hell, he’d flirted with the waitress at the bar last night. He’d flirted when they were younger, more naive, with the wheat farmer’s daughter in Resembool, with Anna the innkeeper in Reole. The act of flirting is soft, deceptive, dull. Whatever exists between himself and Riza Hawkeye, if there is anything at all (which he vehemently doubts) is hard and sharp and cold, like a short knife or a gun barrel. He would hesitant to call it regard, or even respect. Really, it’s the simple mutual, unspoken agreement that when it comes to the Elric brothers working together with Mustang’s team, the two of them will have to be the professional ones. Disdainfully, Al thinks that Hawkeye is likely used to picking up the Ash Colonel’s slack. With Ed, at least their flaws balance each other out, as do their strengths.

They step out into the weak sunlight on the steps of Eastern Command and begin to descend, headed to the library on unspoken agreement, when Al puts on an affected groan and stops walking.

“What is it?” Ed asks, turning back to look at his younger brother with what might be concern, if he didn’t know how Al despised being coddled. Instead, his expression tries for confusion. Al notes almost fondly how spectacularly he fails.

“I left my wallet in Mustang’s office,” Al says. “I’ll run back and get it, you go on to the library and I’ll catch up with you.” Ed is looking at him skeptically, and so Al follows it with a quip, “That is, if you think you can find it without me, and not get lost.”

“Of course I can, just who do you take me for?” Ed says petulantly, “Oh, alright. I’ll see you at the library, little brother. Don’t let that nest of vipers keep you for too long.”

“I wont.” With that, Al turns and re-enters the building, slipping his hands into his pockets, where they brush against the smooth leather of his wallet.

Something is going on with Al. Ed isn’t stupid, he knows his younger brother is far too conscientious to just  _ leave  _ his wallet in a hostile environment, even and especially if the people there claim to be allies. So yeah, something is definitely up. Ed watches his brother jog back into Eastern Command, waits until he can no longer see him through the reinforced glass of the doors, and then turns and begins the walk down the promenade. Ah well, he figures Al is entitled to some form of privacy, at least. Ed knows it likely has something to do with their job here, but if Al doesn’t think he needs to be in the loop yet then he probably doesn’t. For now, he’ll trust Al’s judgement. It’s saved his ass more times than he can count.

Contrary to what Al believes, he’s not oblivious or naive. He  _ knows  _ their suspect is Ishvalan. Yeah, it had taken him a little while longer to piece together everything they’d seen last night, and longer still to be able to admit it to himself, but he has. Now, he’s conflicted. He and Al had sworn an oath, after the war, to do whatever they could to help their people rebuild. They’d dedicated their lives to the service of Ishvalan long before that, the sand cold under their bare feet and shining silver in the light of the moon, the low hum of the old prayers in the Elder’s throat wrapping around them like some great desert serpent. But when the war was lost, when the remnants of their once great, sprawling city lay in ruins and the sand at their feet now ran red and hot with blood; they’d sworn their lives to the service of their people.

Bounty hunting is dangerous work, but what other options could be open for two young warriors without a war? And the pay’s nothing to sneeze at, one job usually paying enough for an entire tenement of their people to eat for a week. And it gives them  _ connections.  _ Crime bosses who’d hired them to decimate a rival gang are all too willing to hide Ishvalans when the Blues come knocking with an extermination order. Doctors they’d gone to dangerous lengths to procure some rare medicine for are happy to treat Ishvalans for a lowered price, or even for free in mild cases. That, ultimately, is the deciding factor in every job they take: what exactly could they exploit afterwards, to give their people a little more hope, more of a leg to stand on?

Ed stops at the end of the promenade and looked back into the distance, at the looming white-washed brick of Eastern Command. So what, then, is there to be exploited working with the Ash Colonel - murderer of hundreds, maybe thousands of Ishvalans - in order to catch one of their own in an act that four years ago, Ed gladly would have undertaken himself? He rubs the bridge of his nose, brows furrowing in frustration. Because the answer is, “quite a lot.” For one, the military has offered them a frankly disgusting amount of money should they succeed. Enough money to be able to send a month’s rations to slums in Reole, East City,  _ and  _ Central. Enough to buy clothes for those who need them, coats and blankets for the Winter that will no doubt come on fast, once the Summer is out. That alone is enough to steel Ed’s mind against his doubts. One man is  _ never  _ as important as the whole of his people. Not the alchemist killer, and not Ed himself. If his honor needs be sullied in order to do this for Ishvalas children, then so be it. If he must face one of his brothers in combat, must protect a military dog against Ishvalan wrath in order to help his people, then he will. And he’ll win, as he must. As he swore to.

He turns his back on Eastern Command and heads west down a main thoroughfare. Despite Al’s snark, he  _ knows _ where the military library is; checked the map hanging in Mustang’s outer office before they left just to be safe. But...it was on  _ which _ block exactly? Ah, hell, he’ll know it when he sees it, Ed’s sure.

Across the city, as the sun drops behind tenement buildings and campfires wink into existence in alleyways and dusty plazas, a cluster of children gather at the feet of an elderly woman sat in an old wicker chair. Her face is kind but creased with old signs of horror, of laughter, of screaming, raging grief. The children at her feet see none of this. They see only her hands, leathery and supple in the way that only work - rearing generations of children, weaving their baby blankets and funeral shrouds - can make them. They see only her kind, clever eyes that have seen giants they cannot imagine. It is these giants they ask after in excited, hushed voices, the growing campfire throwing shadows across their eager faces.

“Tell us, Elder Miriam,” they plead, clutching her skirts, “tell us of the red-sand sea. Tell us the tale of the tigers.” The elder’s eyes wink with mischief and mirth.

“But my dears,” she says, “it seems you already know that story.” She lets the plead and whine a few moments longer, indulgent. Then she lifts one weathered, unshaking hand and the chatter at her feet goes quiet. The silence stretches for a minute longer, and she shifts forward in her seat. Not a breath can be heard over the crackle of logs on the fire. In the anticipatory hush, she begins.

“There was a time, not so long ago yet still before you were born, when Ishvala’s children had their own kingdom. Grand cities sat like islands in a great sand sea, and villages grew up around them; seedlings at the feet of mighty, ancient trees. And ancient the kingdom was, full of history and the lives of a hundred thousand generations. A jewel polished to gleaming by the wind and sands of time.” As she weaves her tale, the eyes of the children gleam in the firelight, and she has to fight to see the wonder there past the reflection of the flame. There were children, once, whose eyes had shone the same; their last moments, the horror in their eyes, illuminated by raging fire.

She blinks, and the campfire is but a campfire. These children are not those, and her heart warms as she sees their eyes sparkle with the imagined memory of a proud civilization they have never seen, yet is theirs all the same. Then her heart sinks, because they all know where this tale goes from here.

“Over time, when Ishvala’s kingdom was already ancient and all the more beautiful for it, other kingdoms began to grow up around it, and quickly. None faster than a sprawling kingdom to the north, powerful in the way all well-tended sprouts are. At first, Ishvala’s children welcomed their new neighbors, and sought to trade and learn from each other, to become friends. After all, we are all Ishvala’s children, no matter where we come from or how far we stray.”

“For a while, all was well and the two kingdoms grew strong from their friendship. Although they were quite different in their values and ways of thinking, this did not keep them from valuing the peace and prosperity between them. At least, that is what we thought.” The children’s eyes are reproachful now. Not quite hard, but burning with the anger that only the truly young can summon. Anger borne from an inability to understand concepts like betrayal, or unmitigated hatred. They know this story, it runs through their blood and lives in the eyes and scarred skin of their parents and grandparents. It is a history they cannot escape, a tale that the very world they live in will not let them forget. The elder dearly wishes it were not so, but those that forget history will ever be doomed to repeat it, so she presses on.

“The soldiers were few in number, at first. They passed unnoticed through gatherings of Ishvalans, simply visitors from the neighboring kingdom. Friends, we thought, like any other. After all, what need had we for armies and soldiers? What need for force and violence when all who we met were Ishvala’s chosen children? So ancient was our gleaming kingdom that we had forgotten the true cost of peace.”

“Unnoticed at first, these neighboring soldiers did not stay so for long. Before we had realized, before we could do a thing to stop it, we were occupied. Our kingdom was no longer our own. We were betrayed. There was an attempt, then, to pull back. To carve out a space for ourselves in this kingdom that once belonged to us alone. The villages closest to that northern kingdom were abandoned; its people gathering their entire lives into their hands and onto their backs, which they then turned on the lands they once called home. The grand, ancient cities became packed with bodies, with so many lives that the air became choked with their breaths. With not enough food to feed all of Ishvala’s children - the farms to the north now abandoned - the people grew weak, then fell sick.”

“The very land, the air and water, became thick with desperation. And then, as quickly as we had been betrayed, they were thick with blood.” She has to pause, then. Has to close her eyes to shut out the flickering flame, lighting in the angry, fearful ruby eyes of the young. So young. Young as the tiny, innocent life whose extinguishing had caused a revolution, and then death on a scale unimaginable. Time and age has dulled the shock of horror, but not the memory. It hangs in her mind, as vivid as if the the years were passing by, here in the few moments behind her closed lids.

A tiny hand on her own brings her back to the present. To those wide ruby eyes, to the story unfurling here and now. She breaths deep, squeezes that tiny hand, and gives a reassuring smile. Some smile back, some do not. It matters not. They are alive, they are here, in front of her. The flames warm their skin, and do not blister and burn. For now, with a task at hand, it has to be enough.

“There was war. Many died, and the great sand sea ran red with the blood of both sides. We had no armies, but from this red sea rose fearsome warriors. Blessed under the light of the moon by those who speak with Ishvala’s own voice. Of all these warriors, there were two that were the most fearsome of all.” Excitement is returning to the children gathered before her. They shift forward, leaning towards her, eyes sparking with something akin to determination. To pride.

“Two tigers, brothers, the colors that mark us as Ishvala’s chosen shot through with shining gold. Gold as the sand had once been, gold as the sun shining on gleaming towers and precious silks. Barely out of their cubhood themselves; the sun shone from within them and lit hope in the hearts of Ishvala’s children, and fear in the hearts of those who would do us harm.”

“Their claws were swords which they wielded like parts of themselves, teeth bared and snarling. Their roars were battle cries in Ishvala’s own tongue. Their eyes were sharp and roaming, a piercing focus that could send hundreds of enemies running without ever drawing weapons. For they were enemies, then. Forgiveness was in Ishvala’s hands alone, and mercy on the battlefield could only end in more Ishvalan blood staining the sand. And so the golden tigers had none, in the hope that our people would one day have the choice _they_ could not afford.” She rakes a purposeful eye over the children; focusing on Rais and Muneera who last week had quibbled over a doll, on Farid who enjoys tugging his sister’s braids. They duck their heads for a moment, sheepish, before looking back to her with eager eyes. She smiles.

“The war stretched into months, then years. Ishvala’s warriors fought like ferocious beasts, none more so that the golden tigers. They grew older, and soon even warriors decades their elder recognized them as leaders. All of Ishvala’s chosen children - no matter how young or old, weak or strong - became their cubs. And, though tigers are solitary beasts, they would tear apart an entire kingdom with bare teeth and claws to protect and avenge their Streak. It seemed, after years of death and a sea of blood, that the tide was finally turning in our favor.”

“Then the Alchemists came.” Shocks of red and blue lightning against the sky. Cities driven apart by the very earth lifting up, creating impossibly large, immovable walls to cut off all hope of escape. And above it all, a firestorm that tore through city blocks, through families, through bodies, through lives, leaving nothing but ash in its wake. Cold, distant eyes judging from on high. Almost enough to make you wonder if your god had forsaken you, after all. Or else judged you and found you worthy of such a hell. Almost.

“Death wearing the skin of mortal men. We could not fight against monster such as that, could not hope to stand against such terrifying power. The only choice was to flea. Yet there was nowhere to go; the demons had surrounded us on all sides. Death was certain, and hope had abandoned us.”

“But the golden tigers had not.” One of the children nearest her feet flashes a biting, savage grin. More a bearing of teeth than anything. Several of the others mirror it, eyes glowing in the firelight. They all know what comes next.

“It is said that Ishvala himself visited a miracle down upon these two brothers, these holy, golden tigers. A ring of shining light, brighter than the desert sun, shone around where the last Ishvalans had been driven. At the center of this ring, the golden tigers. For three days and three nights it shone, blinding the demons and letting none of their horrible death pass its holy barrier.”

“They tried. Oh, they tried. None more so that the Great Flame Demon, but his wall of fire never once pierced the tigers’ protection. Blinded as the demons were, the last of Ishvala’s chosen managed to flee over the desert sand; until the red sea gave way to gold and our legs could carry us no further. By the grace of Ishvala and the mighty will of the tigers, we had been saved.”

“But  _ safe  _ we were not. The demons yet lived, and the kingdom which had betrayed and destroyed us would certainly seek to finish the deed, should they discover us. And so we hid, disappearing like mirages on the dunes, and hidden we remain.”

This should be the end. Certainly it is all they know for sure, but the elder has told this tale many times. Children are not satisfied by what is sure, what is known. She leans forward, tone going low, conspiratorial.

“No one knows what happened to the tigers. Some say they prowl amongst us still, keeping watch over Ishvala’s chosen; and dealing swift and wrathful justice on those who would seek to harm us.” 

The story is over, but its spell is not broken. It will remain until the sun rises once more over the tenements and the night releases its hold over the world. The children mutter excitedly to each other. They glance into the shadows, perhaps hoping to catch a glint of gold, a hint of stripes or flashing claws. She leaves them to their imaginings. Hope is such a precious, fragile thing, after all.


End file.
